


Sickness and Health

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Post-Episode: s10e23 My Brother's Keeper, Pregnant Sam, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, Sleepy Cuddles, Smooching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4742687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's sick. Really sick. And after a lot of distancing that Dean doesn't know the cause of, he's more than happy to baby his baby brother. Except delirious Sam has a secret for him that he's not prepared for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sickness and Health

**Author's Note:**

> this is for my lovely friend suze, happy birthday grandmom <33333

Dean’s door clicks open and swings in a couple of inches before stopping, a stab of bright hallway light spilling into his room. He stays limp and lax, lying on his belly, his right arm reaching up to curl around the grip of the pistol he’s got under his pillow.

Someone shuffles in, trying to stay quiet, padding on what sounds like bare feet. Dean listens hard, holding his body in place.

The person sniffles wetly. “Deeb?”

All the tensed muscles in Dean’s back loosen at once, and he sighs, letting go of the gun and sliding his hand out from under the pillow. He turns onto his side, facing his little brother, who has dragged a quilt along with him and has it curled around his shoulders like a cloak or something. A cloak that only goes down to his knees becaues he’s a fuckin’ giant. 

“Yeah?” he says, but it’s more of a caveman-grunt than anything coherent.

Sam understands him, though. “I think I’m cobig down wib something,” Sam says, his voice clogged up and hoarse. Dean blinks, squinting and watching as Sam’s silhouette raises a hand and wipes at his nose.

Dean groans and heaves himself upright, the sheet falling down to his waist. “Thermometer’s in the cabinet above the sink,” he says, scrubbing at his eyes as they adjust to the light.

Sam bobs his head and hobbles unsteadily to the sink in the corner of Dean’s room. He opens up the cabinet and tugs out the whole medical kit, cradling it and putting it in Dean’s lap. He sits down next to Dean, the bed dipping under him, and waits obediently.

“Let’s see here,” Dean murmurs, some of the thickness seeping out of his voice as he wakes up in increments. He grabs the thermometer and turns to Sam. He pushes Sam’s hair back from his forehead and presses his hand into the warm skin there. Sam’s eyes flutter shut and a breath slips out of him as he leans into the touch.

Dean’s heart feels pinched when he pulls his hand away. Things had seemed to be going so well, earlier, the two of them united against the darkness and on even footing. They’d even made love again, the first time in around a year or so, Sam’s body so soft and familiar beneath him in the quiet dark of the motel room.

But after that… Dean doesn’t know. Things just fell away again. Sam drew away from him, always looking slightly troubled, the lines on his forehead scrunching up constantly. He became quieter, only answering when spoken to, never laughing, never even smiling at Dean’s desperate attempts ta jokes. They’d come back to the bunker and headed into separate rooms by unspoken agreement. For a couple weeks, besides research and planning, he hadn’t seen much of Sam at all.

Dean honestly doesn’t fucking know what to do. He’s afraid to try his usual Sam-tricks, terrified to  _talk_ to Sam. When was the last time they’d actually spoken to each other? He’s afraid that whatever they had just can’t come back. That the easy, unconscious bond between them had an expiration date and they’re long past it. He feels uncomfortable around Sam even though he fucking  _knows_  him, god damn it, and he doesn’t know why and he’s too weak to press it. Maybe this is how things are now. How they’ll always be. He deserves it, doesn’t he? And it’s just been so long since they last just laid in bed together, naked, watching some dumb late-night movie…

He shakes his head and mutters something unintelligible under his breath. He brushes the hair away from Sam’s ear and warns him it’ll be cold before sticking the thermometer in. They wait in a weird, indescribable silence for the beep, and when it comes, Dean isn’t surprised to see that Sam’s sporting a mild fever. He tells Sam as much.

“I told you,” Sam croaks, pouting, his shoulders hunched as he shivers.

“I didn’t doubt it,” Dean pacifies him mildly, standing up and stretching. “You see the cold medicine? Take some of that.”

Sam follows his instructions, even if he moves like a sloth. When the pills are finally downed (after Dean had to go fetch a glass of water), Sam stands up, making it halfway to the door before he turns around, holding his quilt in a death grip, frowning.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Anything else, Sammy?”

Sam flushes, his pink cheeks turning even darker. “Deeb…”

Dean scoffs, shaking his head. He climbs back into bed, holding the sheet up. “Close the door, would you? And hurry up, I’m cold.”

Sam flashes him a grateful look and pushes the door shut. He goes around to the other side of the bed and carefully spreads the quilt over both of them before curling up, careful to stay on his side of the bed. He’s turned away from Dean, his hands pressed near his face.

Dean waits until Sam’s breathing evens out before sliding closer, pressing his stomach to Sam’s back and laying a hand on his waist. He’s asleep within minutes, soundest sleep he’s had in weeks, breathing in the honey-sweet, warm smell of Sam as he presses his nose against the back of Sam’s neck.

***

Dean gives Sam his own precious grey robe when he sees that Sam’s quilt isn’t really doing him any favors. Sam had been holding in his shudders in like they were shameful, and when Dean turned away he’d watched Sam out of the corner of his eye as the kid was suddenly attacked with shivers.

Now, all warm and bundled up, they sit on Sam’s bed, watching some extremely gorey Tarantino flick. Sam’s nursing a mug full of soup broth, which Dean personally finds kind of disgusting, but hey. If Sam likes it, Sam can have it all he wants.

Dean sips at his own coffee, trying to find something to say, mulling worriedly at the fact that not only is there a gap of space between them, but that he can still feel Sam’s radiating heat despite it.

Sam sniffles again and paws at the box of Kleenex balancing in his lap. He blows his nose before carefully depositing the tissue in the trash bin by his side of the bed. He turns his dull eyes back to the movie, tiny little shivers now a constant companion.

Dean clears his throat, his cheeks warming up to match Sam’s as Sam stares at him, waiting. Dean shrugs, feeling stupid for being so inarticulate, and scoots closer, wrapping an arm around Sam. Sam freezes up for a second, metaphorically beating the shit out of Dean’s heart, but relaxes, fidgeting around until he settles, his head pillowed on Dean’s shoulder.

“You looked cold,” Dean explains lamely, his fingers rubbing Sam’s arm just by little-brother-instinct, second nature.

He feels Sam nod against him. “Yeah…” he says, trailing off, and Dean feels a little satisfied that Sam’s as shit as him at this.

They watch in silence for a couple more minutes before Sam sucks in a quick breath, straightening up against Dean’s side. Dean waits.

“Dean, I.” At least he doesn’t sound as congested.

That’s as far as he gets, though, before he’s pushing away from Dean like he’s been stung by something, swearing under his breath before leaning over the side of the bed and promptly puking into the trash can.

Dean can’t help but feel offended. He slides off the bed and makes his way over to Sam, patting his back and murmuring something comforting. Herding Sam as fast as he can to the nearest bathroom, he wonders what Sam was going to say. It sounded important, started out the way all their Talks usually did, but they’d been rudely interrupted by Sam’s breakfast.

They make it to the toilet in time for round two, and Sam makes a pathetic little sound, leaning his forehead against the cool porcelain. Dean just sighs, keeping a hand on Sam’s back, burning hot, stuck against his shirt with a thin layer of sweat.

***

It doesn’t get any better after that. Sam’s fever reaches dangerous heights, and Dean somehow manages to get a barely-upright little brother who’s quaking enough to measure something on the Richter scale back into his room, tucking him into bed and laying a cool washcloth over his forehead. Sam moans, his eyes shut and face red and shiny, turning and shifting and getting caught in the blankets. Dean works to get him untangled and comfortable, ignoring Sam’s garbled pleas for what he thinks translates to more blankets. He’s already snuggled in deep and burning up, Dean’s not gonna risk adding to that flame.

If Sam’s ever even a little bit coherent, Dean tries forcing some fluids into him, begging Sam to drink something. Sam can never keep it down, though, and Dean’s beginning to panic just a little. Sam hasn’t been this sick in– what? Around three years, Dean thinks, ‘cause he got pretty sick after Cas healed his head.

If Dean knows one thing about Sam, it’s that he can never go halfway on anything, puts his all into it, and getting sick is no exception. Every time he gets the flu, Dean’s sure he’s going to die. And every time, he makes it through, no worse for wear.

Dean reminds himself of this when Sam’s fever hits a hundred and five. Sam will be okay.  _He’ll be okay._  Hell, compared to some of the other shit his baby brother has faced, this is absolutely fucking nothing. This isn’t even child’s play, it’s baby’s play. Or something.

When Sam keens softly, barely above a whisper but sounding like someone’s taken out his heart, Dean’s eyes water, but he keeps his cool, wiping Sam’s face free of sweat and running a hand through Sam’s ragged hair. “It’ll be okay, Sammy,” he says, his voice barely wavering, “just a little bit more, and I promise it’ll get better.”

Sam moves under his touch, a writhing, twisting pile of leadweight limbs, his eyes flickering restlessly under their lids. He gasps, his face twisting up like he’s been stabbed. He’s openly panting now, like an overheated dog, and Dean absolutely loathes the useless feeling washing over him in tides.

He settles for scrubbing away sweat with his cloth, gently kneading the skin and combing Sam’s hair with his fingers as he goes. Sam keeps whimpering, the sounds going straight to Dean’s heart, and Dean’s worried he’s gonna have to carry his 6'4’’ brother to the car because it’s looking more and more likely he’ll need a hospital.

Dean strips some blankets off of Sam, ignoring Sam’s tremors and whines as he does. He brings bags of ice wrapped in towels from the kitchen, tucking them all along Sam’s various nooks and crannies; his neck, his armpits, his knees. He watches over Sam avidly, keen eyes better than any hawk’s. He monitors Sam’s temperature, and vows that if it goes up at all, Sam’s going to the hospital or Dean’ll be damned.

After awhile, Sam quiets. He doesn’t stop moving or sweating, though, so Dean knows he’s not out of the woods yet. Not by a longshot. No, he’s probably got hundreds more shitty acres to trek through or whatever. If Winchester luck is still at work, that is.

 _“Dean,”_  Sam gasps, causing Dean to jerk like he’d been spooked by a ghost. He looks down at Sam, who is feebly trying to scramble into a sitting position, his forearms slipping and trembling on the mattress.

“Shit, Sammy, what the hell?” Dean mutters distractedly, heaving Sam up by the armpits and fluffing the pillows at his back.

Sam’s arm shoots out and his fingers hook around Dean’s wrist. He tugs on Dean, insistently, red, glassy, blown-pupiled puppydog eyes digging into Dean with an intensity that catches Dean off guard and takes his breath away.

“Dean,” he says again, the strain thickening his voice. “Dean, I don’t want to die.”

Dean swallows. It takes him a bit to find his voice. “Sam, it’s just a fever,” he manages when he does. “You’ll be just fine.”

“No!” Sam sounds angry, and his face dips into a shade of red that makes it look like he’s oxygen-deprived. “I’m burning Dean. He’s burning me up.”

Dean’s vision blurs. He pries himself from Sam’s grip, and moves his hand to rest on Sam’s shoulder. He leans into Sam’s space, his eyes flicking between Sam’s. Sam makes a bitten-off sound, his eyebrows scrunching up and pushing together as the first tear slides down his cheek.

“You’re home, Sammy,” Dean tells him, his voice low but strong, “no one’s here except for you and me. Just the two of us, huh? Listen to me. You’re gonna be fine. Just get some sleep, Sammy. It’ll all be better when you wake up.”

“No,” Sam repeats, shaking his head and mussing up his hair. “It’s not just the two of us. It’s not.”

Dean’s lip wobbles and he bites it, frowning at his brother. “Sam, it’s just us.”

Sam makes a wounded sound and his face shatters, tears falling like shards of glass. “No it isn’t,” he pants, hitching sobs stealing his breath away, “you have to save the baby, Dean.  _You have to save the baby._ ”

Sam gives one more tiny sob, his hand moving down to clutch at his belly. He turns his head away from Dean and squeezes his eyes shut tight, his uneven, jagged breaths slowly smoothing out, along with the lines on his forehead. The tear tracks have dried on his cheeks.

Dean stares. And stares and stares and stares. His hand is frozen on Sam’s shoulder, feeling the heat under his palm but not much else. Sam’s the only person who has ever stopped Dean’s brain from working completely, ripping his thoughts from their tracks.

_The baby?_

It’s impossible. It’s completely fucking nuts, and ridiculous at that, except Dean can’t really remember putting on a condom that time all those weeks ago in the motel room. But he did, okay? It was awhile ago, that’s all. That’s not something Dean forgets.

Except shit.  _Fuck._

And it would explain Sam pushing away from him. And how Sam’s been wearing his comfort hoodies lately, and his baggier shirts, and he hides away in his room all day… fuck, has he been puking? Getting morning sickness? Dean should’ve seen the signs, should’ve been looking harder. He should’ve been cramming Sam full of food from the get-go, because  _Sam is pregnant with their child._

Their child. Dean’s child.

Giggles bubble out of Dean, delusional giggles, like the ones Sam should be making because he’s fucking delirious. Delirious enough to confess to Dean.

One last spike of skepticism pokes Dean in the chest and he carefully peels back the blankets coocooning Sam, pushing up his shirt. And sure enough, Sam’s lost all definition in his stomach, the lines smooth and soft. He has a small but undeniable baby bump, framed by his hips. Which, Dean notes, are really slim. This might be a hard pregnancy for Sam. But Dean will be there for him, every step of the way, yes he will.

Pushing Sam’s shirt back down and rearranging the blankets, Dean thinks about Sam distancing himself from Dean and understands the behavior completely. From Sam’s perspective, this would be big and new and scary, and Sam’s always been the type to worry and doubt. He’s always been the type to blow things out of proportion with self-hate. He’s probably spent the last weeks convincing himself Dean wouldn’t want to have his child, that sex is one thing but a baby with Sam? Forget it. He’s probably been imagining Dean’s look of sick disgust, pushing Sam away and yelling at Sam, because Sam can’t hunt like this, can’t kill demons with a baby, and what was he thinking?

Except Sam couldn’t have been more fucking wrong.

God, if they’d just talked, even once, Dean’s sure Sam would’ve broken down and told him. And Dean could’ve told a coherent, not-delirious Sam that shit, this is what he’s always wanted, his biggest desire tucked safely away in the deepest recesses of his heart. He wants to stop hunting, yes. And he wants a family and a kid, yes. But most of all, he wants it with  _Sam_. Always has. Wants Sam to be there every step of the way.

He lays a gentle hand on Sam’s forehead and almost cries tears of relief when he feels how much Sam has cooled down.

He can’t wait to tell his little brother the good news.

***

In the morning, Dean hums a little diddy as he sets about making Sam breakfast. He loads a tray with eggs, bacon, toast, and chocolate chip pancakes just the way Sam likes them. He pours a tall glass of orange juice and carefully makes his way through the maze of halls. He wonders if Sam will remember being sick at all. The delirium was pretty bad, might’ve scrambled Sam a little. Would he remember telling Dean about the pregnancy? If he didn’t he’d be in for a surprise, because Dean wanted to talk about this. A lot. Balancing the tray on his knee as he reaches forward and opens Sam’s door.

He’s met with the sight of Sam’s duffel out on the bed, Sam tossing shirts out of his dresser like he’s on a timer.

“Sammy?” Dean asks, and Sam trips, turning around and bumping into the open dresser drawer. He can see the whites of Sam’s eyes all around his pupils, and he’s wringing his hands together, a twitching criminal caught red-handed. He wavers a little, off-balance, still suffering from the final stage of his flu.

Dean carefully sets the tray down on Sam’s nightstand. “What'cha doin’?” he asks, trying for casual, leaning against the wall.

Sam huffs, his eyes downturned. “I thought you wouldn’t want to see me for awhile, y'know, after last night.” The last few words are spat out.

Dean scoffs, pushing off the wall. Sam looks up at him, his lips thinned.

“For such a smart guy, you’re a fucking idiot sometimes,” Dean says lightly.

Sam glares at him.

Dean sits down on the bed, and Sam slowly mimics him, sitting down on the other side, moving like a startled deer.

“You should’ve told me earlier, Sammy,” Dean says softly, meeting Sam’s eyes and smiling, his crow’s feet crinkling around his eyes.

Sam stays quiet, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. He ducks his head, his bangs hiding his eyes.

“I know why you didn’t, though,” Dean continues, bulldozing over Sam’s anxiety. “You thought I’d be disgusted, I wouldn’t want to keep it, wouldn’t want to start a family with you, blah blah blah… Kiddo, you gotta know that’s all bullshit.”

Sam looks up.

“There is nothing more,” Dean pauses, making sure Sam’s watching him, “that I want in this entire fucking world than to have that kid with you. I want to watch your belly grow and I want to have to help you get out of bed and feed you all the damn time. I want to feel the first kick and I want to be there when the baby’s born. Sammy, god, I just… I don’t know how you could think I wouldn’t want this. This is the only thing I want.”

Sam’s eyes are all bright and shiny. He looks so young with the hope showing so blatantly on his face, like the little kid Dean taught how to read. “You better not be lying,” Sam growls, but his tough facade is broken apart by the weakness of his voice, how it cracks over each syllable.

Dean crawls onto the bed until he’s leaning over Sam and looking into his wide eyes. He frames Sam’s face with his hands, tilting Sam’s jaw up. Neither of them blink. “I swear on my life,” he whispers, before leaning forward and pressing his lips against Sam’s, leaning down and urging Sam’s mouth open, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

Sam kisses back, making a quiet sigh before leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Dean’s back, opening wider and making a pleased sound when Dean licks into his mouth, their tongues sliding past each other.

Sam breaks apart, his bottom lip red and gleaming with spit. “You really think we can do this? Just drop it all and have a baby?”

Dean laughs, tracing the apples of Sam’s cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Yeah, I do. And I can’t fucking  _wait_.” he slips one of his hands away from Sam’s face and slides it under Sam’s shirt, feeling the warm curve of his tummy. Sam gasps but puts a hand over Dean’s, linking their fingers together. His cheeks are rosy and his dimples are out in full force. Dean notices Sam’s crying again, but they’re good tears this time, happy ones. Sam laughs once, his teeth showing as he grins wider and presses forward, his nose bumping against Dean’s.

Dean smiles and rubs Sam’s belly, biting and tugging at Sam’s lip before sucking it into his mouth. He kisses Sam with all he’s got, makes sure Sam knows the truth of the matter, knows how much Dean loves him without having to say so. He puts as much meaning behind the kiss as humanly possible, and Sam responds in kind. They break apart time and time again, only to come back together and seek out each other’s lips, each other’s skin.

“I’m pregnant,” Sam says against Dean’s lips, and he sounds giddy, like a kid on his first rollercoaster.

“With our kid,” Dean adds, enjoying the extra spark that lights up Sam’s eyes. He nuzzles Sam’s face, inhaling deep before moving down to kiss and bite at the place where Sam’s jaw meets his neck. Sam shudders underneath him, his hands gripping Dean’s tshirt tightly.

Dean leads a trail of kisses all over Sam’s body, thinking as he goes. If it’s a girl, he muses, he thinks they should name her Samantha, after the best and only love of his life.


End file.
